Jessica

by Bryce Courtenay

  Jessica began to sob softly. ‘Please, Mr Runche, I’m not mad. They stole my child! They took Joey away from me!’ Richard Runche KC sighed. ‘No, Jessica, I don’t think you are mad.’ He sighed again, more quietly. ‘Though God knows, looking at the evidence, you don’t appear to have a leg to stand on.’ He reached out and put his hand on Jessica’s shoulder. ‘But we may have one thing going for us. The paper your mother signed making the farm over to you and your child is signed by this Mary Simpson — and your mother, of course — and that may establish the veracity of the black woman’s testimony. Where might this document be, do you have it with you?’

  ‘No, it was left with my things, in my room, when I went to the funeral.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ he sighed. ‘Well, I don’t suppose it’s still there.’

  ‘Not bloody likely,’ Jessica sniffed.

  Runche frowned. ‘So there it is, my dear. Even the document in your mother’s handwriting signing your father’s property over to you can’t be found.’ He spread his hands and shrugged, saying nothing. ‘Mary signed it, she’ll say so.’

  The lawyer ignored this remark, having already dismissed the black woman’s testimony. ‘Think, my dear, there must be something — a little thing, perhaps ever so small, one thing we can use that will at least cast doubt on your mother and sister’s version of the truth.’

  Jessica looked up at the barrister, shaking her head. ‘They took my baby and now I can’t prove otherwise,’ she choked.

  Runche was beginning to wonder what he’d let himself in for. His head throbbed from a hangover that no less than half a dozen glasses of claret could hope to fix. It was way past pub time, his mouth was dry and he could feel the shakes coming on. ‘Think, my dear. In my experience there is always something, something we might use.’

  Jessica lowered her face into her cupped hands, trying to think. She remained like this for a minute or more. Then she looked up slowly, hopefully. ‘The Chinese dress. The aunties bought it for me, for my baby.’ ‘The Chinese dress? Whatever do you mean by that, Jessica?’

  ‘When Hester come an’ told me about Joe dying, I brought the baby home with me, but I was that upset I forgot the Chinese dress. It’s under the straw mattress of my bed in the tin hut,’ Jessica said excitedly. ‘You must forgive me, I still don’t understand.’ Jessica told Richard Runche about the shopping expedition to the Chinese shop in Narrandera by the aunties to buy her child a birth dress, a gift from the Wiradjuri tribe.

  ‘The court can’t say they’re all lying, can it? You couldn’t make lip a thing like that, could you?’ she begged.

  ‘Hmm, perhaps not. This Mary Simpson, could she take me to your hut?’

  Jessica nodded, whereupon the weary barrister rose from the park bench. ‘Very well, my dear. We’ll leave it like that for the time being. I shall be in touch.’ Richard Runche KC extended his hand and Jessica could see it was trembling. ‘And now I must find the nearest pub,’ he said, shaking her hand.

  ‘Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.’ He ran his tongue over his cracked lips. ‘Don’t thank me yet, Jessica, we’ve a long way to go before you’re out of this miserable place.’ Then he turned and walked towards the wrought-iron gates, pausing to talk briefly to the porter, who Jessica saw point left, down the road. Jessica watched as Liquid Lunch crossed Balmain Road and turned left towards the Macarthur Arms. She felt as though she had been run over by a steamroller. She sat quietly in the dark shade of the oak tree and wondered what would become of her. She wished she was dead, like Jack, and that she lay next to him. Then she began to wonder for the thousandth time why, when he had been alive, he hadn’t written to her in the asylum. She’d written to him every month for two years but had never received a reply. Had Hester or Meg — or both of them — written to him to tell him she’d gone crazy? Surely he would be able to tell from her letters that this was not so? She’d always sent them to the right place — Moishe had seen to this, tracking Jack’s regiment wherever it went. He’d missed out on Gallipoli and stayed in Egypt, she knew that much. She also knew in her heart that he was alive. Moishe had seen to that detail, too, diligently going through the postings in the daily newspapers by the Defence Department of those killed in action. Not only had Moishe seen to it that Jessica had pen and paper to write with but he’d also paid for the stamps to Egypt.

  Dear, sweet Moishe had never asked her about Jack. He’d waited patiently for her to tell him and when she hadn’t she supposed he’d considered Jack was the reason why she’d rejected his hand in marriage. It was a fair enough assumption because, of course, it was true — she could love no other man, come what may.

  But then in the third week of January 1917 on a Thursday, when Moishe wasn’t expected to visit, he arrived to see Jessica and gave her the sad news that Jack was dead. He had died of his wounds sustained in a cavalry charge against the Turks at a place called Magdhaba in Egypt on Christmas Eve, on Joey’s second birthday.

  Jessica had been inconsolable for several weeks, eating almost nothing and remaining silent for days on end, until she had been threatened with the jacket. Then she’d taken to mourning for Jack after midnight, when the ward was locked and when the moans and the cries and the weeping of the inmates cancelled each other out.

  But still, while she mourned for him every day, Jessica could never understand why Jack hadn’t given her the benefit of the doubt. It could only have been because of something Meg or Hester had written to him about her, something so horrible it prevented him from writing to her ever again. Jessica couldn’t imagine what it could be. Perhaps that she’d tried to kill Meg’s baby, his son? Jessica couldn’t have told him about Joey.

  Now, she thought, even if she’d changed her mind and he were still alive and she’d decided to write to Jack and tell him what had happened, Richard Runche KC had just demonstrated to her how unlikely her story would have sounded even to him, and how easily Meg could have refuted it. Jack would have concluded that Hester and Meg were right and that she had gone mad. Jessica sat alone and wept in the late afternoon sun. She wept for Jack in his windswept grave of desert sand and hoped that they’d buried him in the grove of eucalypts he’d seen near the pyramids. She wept for her own lost son. For herself. ‘Maybe I am going mad, am mad!’ she sobbed softly. Passers-by took no notice of the slim, sad girl in the loony-bin smock and ugly black boots seated under an English oak. People in the grounds of a mental asylum weeping to themselves were a common enough sight. Misery was the stock in trade of such a place. Mad people don’t do a lot of laughing.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  On I December 1918, twenty days after the end of the war, Jessica is released from Callan Park into the custody of Mr Richard Runche KC. She is given a cheap cotton calico dress and allowed to keep her bloomers and boots and then she’s handed a large manila envelope, which she can’t even think about opening for the moment.

  Jessica and Richard Runche take the omnibus to Central Station, whereupon the barrister escorts Jessica to platform ten and buys them both a ticket. Runche hands Jessica the ticket and looks at her, slightly shamefaced. ‘If you’ll excuse me, my dear, I’ll just have a tot or two before the train goes. Would you care to accompany me? A drink might do you some good,’ he says. Jessica shakes her head. ‘Thank you, Mr Runche, I’ve never tasted strong drink. Can I just wait here?’ The lawyer looks somewhat relieved. ‘This is the correct platform, my dear, and the train departs at nine tonight.’ He fishes into his trouser pockets and finds a shilling, then points to the main concourse. ‘The tea room is over there, almost directly opposite this platform, should you be feeling a trifle peckish.’

  At first Jessica is reluctant to take his money, but the lawyer persists. ‘It’s a long journey, all night on the train, so you’ll need to take some refreshment, Jessica.’ Jessica watches as he walks away, and thinks that even from the back Richard Runche looks frail. The jacket he wears is too short, and the
seat of his trousers is shiny, the trousers hanging loosely in folds, their cuffs rumpled and concertinaed about the ankles. His shoes are badly scuffed and down at heel and need a good blacking. His being slightly stooped and wearing an ill-fitting jacket makes one shoulder appear a little higher than the other. Even at a distance the dishevelled lawyer gives the impression of uncertainty and disrepair. He carries a small, battered leather suitcase, barely large enough to contain much more than his shaving soap, razor and one or two small personal items, though Jessica is sure these would not include a spare shirt, underwear or socks.

  Jessica sits on the platform for a while, clutching the brown envelope and watching people in the distance as they walk along the concourse. She feels strange in the unfamiliar surroundings, as though she has been transported to another world where she doesn’t belong.

  For four years her life has been conducted behind high stone walls where the buildings and every tree surrounding them were familiar to her, the witches’ broomsticks of the oak trees in winter and the dark shade of their generous leaves in summer.

  Jessica needs time to adjust to this new sense of space as well as the number of people that seem to fill it. Everything looks different and unfamiliar, and after the quiet of the lunatic asylum the peripheral noise is deafening. She does not notice the austerity brought about by the war or the shabby clothes most people wear. All she sees is the rush and bustle of city life and the urgent faces of people, all of whom seem to have somewhere to go and with no time to waste. She longs suddenly to be back in the bush, the never-changing bush, where she can belong again.

  The railway clock strikes six — three hours to go before the train is due to leave for the west. Jessica glances down uncertainly at the brown envelope on her lap, still lacking the courage to open it. It bulges slightly and looks quite intimidating and strange, belonging to a world she has yet to become accustomed to.

  In the mental asylum suppertime was five o’clock and her stomach has grown accustomed to receiving food at this hour. But she decides to sit a while longer while she tries to summon sufficient courage to walk across the platform onto the concourse and then to enter the railway tea room.

  Eventually Jessica gets to her feet, but she can feel her knees trembling as she walks towards the brightly lit tea room. At the doorway she peeps in and is alarmed to find it is filled with people chatting and eating, the hum of human voices mixed with the clatter and din of cutlery on china. The large room is fuggy with pipe smoke and the smell of cooking and she draws back, afraid to enter. At the asylum meals were taken in silence and inmates were not allowed to smoke. Jessica has become so used to eating her food in a solitary manner that the railway tea room now seems to her to be filled with mad people. Diners snorting and snuffling, feeding faces with snouts like pigs — a scene more from a dream than reality — and she shrinks back in fear.

  ‘What’s the matter, lovey? “Teleee-graph!” You ‘fraid to go in? “Teleee-graph!” Don’t blame ya. “Teleeegraph!” Them snotty waitresses, “Teleee-graph!” full of their own importance, them lot. “Teleee-graph!’”

  Jessica turns to see the small woman, perhaps in her sixties or a little older, who has spoken to her. She wears a faded green dust-coat which reaches to her ankles and a pair of ancient bedroom slippers with the toenail of her left foot cutting through the dirty felt. A battered leather satchel hangs across her shoulder and flaps against her bony hip and under her arm she carries a bundle of evening newspapers.

  ‘G’day,’ Jessica says quietly, not quite knowing if she’s expected to answer the old woman.

  ‘Kiosk, lovey, over the end. “Teleee-graph!” Do a nice pie or a cornish pasty, “Teleee-graph!” cuppa tea and a sticky bun. “Teleee-graphf’’’ The woman is pointing towards the end of the main concourse. ‘Skinny Dredge, he’s the boss, tell him Myra, “Teleee-graph!” sent youse.’ ‘Thank you,’ Jessica says, looking to where the little newspaper seller is pointing.

  ‘Got a penny?’ the woman now asks.

  Jessica shakes her head and says ingenuously, ‘I’ve only got a shilling.’ She opens her hand to reveal the coin Richard Runche has given her.

  The newspaper seller quickly counts out eleven pence in change and gives it to Jessica, taking the shilling and handing her a newspaper. ‘Ta, lovey,’ she says moving away, ‘Teleee-graphf’

  Jessica takes a deep breath and then walks over to the kiosk, which isn’t too crowded. A large silver urn dominates the rear counter, just like the one they used at Callan Park with a little glass tube set into the side to show how much water there remains in it. It is such a small thing, but its familiar presence gives Jessica confidence. A blackboard with a chalked menu is fixed against the back wall and announces, amongst other items, that a pie and a cup of tea is sixpence and a sticky bun threepence. Jessica doesn’t introduce herself with the compliments of Myra, but manages to order both a pie and a bun with a cup of tea. The very act of carrying out this simple task makes her nervous and she stutters slightly.

  ‘Milk, sugar?’ the man — presumably Skinny Dredgeasks, placing the steaming mug of tea on the counter. Jessica is too confused to answer. ‘How many?’ the man asks irritably again, but Jessica doesn’t understand. ‘C’mon miss, I ain’t got all day, you want sugar, how many?’ Jessica now realises that she’s expected to drink the tea on the spot and that she can’t, as she’d hoped, wrap the pie and bun in the newspaper and take the lot back to the bench on the platform to eat in seclusion.

  She is suddenly terrified at the idea of eating with other people milling about her. Flustered, she leaves the steaming mug of tea on the counter and quickly wraps the bun and pie in the newspaper and, with the manila envelope clasped under her arm, she flees back to the isolation of the platform. ‘Hey, yer tea! Ya forgot yer tea, miss,’ she hears Skinny Dredge calling after her.

  When she’s eaten her first meal out of captivity, Jessica feels strong enough to open the big, brown threatening envelope. She tears it open very slowly, removing only a sliver from across one end of the envelope, watching as the thin strip of paper curls over her thumb, frightened about what the envelope might contain.

  Jessica gasps as she peers inside and sees what appears to be at least two dozen letters. Her mouth goes dry and her heart begins to pound. She quickly pulls one of the letters out and sees that it is stamped Australian Comforts Fund and is dated and addressed to her in a handwriting she doesn’t recognise. She pulls out a second and it, too, has the same stamp and date, and is also addressed to her, though in yet another person’s handwriting.

  Jessica up-ends the contents of the envelope onto her lap and sees they’ve all been treated in the same way. When she begins to sort the envelopes she finds they cover a span of two years, from 1915 to 1917, and that there are twenty-seven letters in all.

  She is not to know that letters from soldiers overseas were censored by the army and then sent back to Australia in bulk, where they were given to the Comforts Fund by the Post Office to address and send on. Jessica’s hands tremble as she opens the first letter and when she sees that it is in Jack’s boyish hand, she promptly bursts into tears.

  Jessica reads between sobs for an hour and it soon becomes apparent that Jack has not forsaken her and that he always loved her. After reading each letter, Jessica folds it and pushes it back into its envelope and returns it to the larger manila one. She is about to open Jack’s last letter when she hears a shout.

  ‘Miss Bergman, we come!’ Jessica looks up to see Solly and Moishe Goldberg hurrying down the platform towards her. She brushes away her tears, anxious that they not see she’s been crying, that her eyes don’t betray her.

  Moishe arrives twenty feet ahead of his father. ‘We come, Jessie!’ He smiles. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t come to Callan Park. It’s Shabbat, we may not ride on the Sabbath.’

  Jessica grins, happy that her friends have come to see her off. ‘I knew it was a Sa
turday, that you couldn’t come.’ She looks up at Moishe, her expression concerned. ‘Did you break a Jewish rule to come or something?’

  Just then Solly Goldberg arrives, red-faced and puffing and in his usual lather of sweat. He carries the familiar wicker basket, which he now places at his feet. ‘Compliments Mrs Goldberg!’ he announces breathlessly and then straightens up and spreads his hands to take in Jessica. ‘Such wonderful news, you out that place, a miracle from God, no less!’

  ‘Oh, I am so happy we got here in time, Jessie, that we haven’t missed you,’ Moishe says in a rare display of emotion.

  ‘How did you know? I mean, I didn’t even know the train times myself,’ Jessica asks.

  Moishe grins and shrugs his shoulders. ‘You know me, Mr Check-everything-twice-over. I looked up the train timetable and just prayed the nine p.m. train was the right one. It’s the only one that leaves overnight for the west and goes all the way to Narrandera. I was going to come anyway, but Sabbath ends at sunset,’ he turns to acknowledge Solly Goldberg, ‘so my father could also come.’

  ‘For a Communist, a clever boychick,’ Solly says happily.

  At eight o’clock the conductor appears, looking important in his uniform. By now the platform has become quite crowded and he walks along opening the carriage doors so that the passengers may climb aboard, even though the train’s not due to leave for an hour. Moishe climbs aboard and finds a second-class compartment with a seat by a window and Solly Goldberg hands up the ‘Compliments Mrs Goldberg’ basket. Moisht places it on the seat next to the window, reserving it for Jessica.